


By His Will and the Grace of Gods

by greygerbil



Category: Original Work
Genre: 12th Century Pseudo-Britain, First Time, Gentle Sex, M/M, Mutual Aphrodisiac-Induced Dubcon, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: When Fiacha mac Domnall's brother suddenly renounces the throne, the high priest is asked to leave behind his vows and take the crown to prevent a civil war. His new ally, the great knight people call Cenric the Wolf, just wanted to avoid bloodshed, but finds he sees more in his new king than just a capable ruler. Not everyone is happy to quietly relinquish their own claim to the kingdom, though, and so Fiacha and Cenric have more to grapple with than just their budding affection.





	By His Will and the Grace of Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmyvalar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyvalar/gifts).



> Dear recip, thank you for your prompts and directions! I hope I managed to combine them into something you will like.

When Fiacha said goodbye to his brother, who was clothed in grey and painted with ashes as was customary for the Watchers on the burial mounds, the whispers from court were already so loud he could hear them even in the dark halls of the Greatwoods high temple. His brother’s naked feet trailed in the dust as he left on the road north, where the kings had of old been buried, and where his fair wife Marianne laid now some three years. It was as long as Gofraidh had managed to hold out among the living; now he would be a Watcher to the Otherworld, a solemn sacred duty that necessitated one to lay aside all power and status in the mortal realm – such as the crown.

In the annals, it told of two of queens who had undertaken the journey, Edda of Hollyhill and Siobhán Star-Eyes, and legends said that the great king Athelstan the Conqueror had repented for all the blood his wars had spilled in this manner, way in the olden times before writing. None had done it without leaving behind an heir, of which Marianne and Gofraidh had never born one. The two had also taken no ward, for they had hoped for a child of their blood, and after Marianne was gone, Gofraidh was entirely too despondent to still concern himself with such matters. A weakness, Fiacha had to admit, and yet one so human he had never been able to think ill of him for it, even if seeing him sink into despair had grieved Fiacha, too. His brother had simply always loved too deeply.

So Fiacha prayed for Gofraidh’s peace, even as his cousins started raising their voices, making their tenuous claims to the throne known, bolstering their factions with bribes and promises. If gossip was to be believed, these fights between his family members had only not already turned bloody because his brother’s most loyal knights, led by Sir Cenric Wakefield, were keeping the assassins out of the walls of the royal keep.

It was this man, then, who stood in the entrance hall of the Greatwoods high temple just a few days after Gofraidh’s departure.

Fiacha watched him carefully from where he sat on a stone bench hewn into the wall, winding a wreath of oak leaves and twigs. Cenric was an uncommonly tall man about Fiacha’s age with little mercy in his sword-grey eyes, his long hair and trimmed beard the colour of cold winter sunlight, with a sharp-edged face and hard, unyielding body, which bore the scars of many battles fought. Fiacha had seen him before, as he’d been one of his brother’s generals for many a long summer and winter. Though of no house of importance, his tenacity and courage had impressed Gofraidh and his knights, and the common folk sung of Sir Cenric’s heroic deeds and called him Cenric the Wolf for his deadly strength in battle.

“You must take the throne,” Cenric said, without preamble, as he knelt before Fiacha. “It’s yours by right, Fiacha mac Domnall.”

“Rise, warrior, one kneels not before a priest. I took the white robes thirty-five years ago,” Fiacha answered.

“They are not for life. The gods would forgive you.” Cenric stared at him, not getting up. Few men could have looked as imposing as him with their knees on the ground. “Who of your cousins would lead us, you think? You know them as well as I. Vultures, the pack of them! And even if one of them could turn true king, he would only get the crown after enough battles to leave the rivers running red.”

Fiacha had never wanted the throne, in truth, but he had always wanted peace for the people, and he knew enough of the kingdom to say that Cenric was not making idle threats. The soft oak leaves faltered and crumpled under his fingertips as he tightened his grip.

“Who says there will be no rivers of red if I announce that I take my birth right?” Fiacha answered. “I know the dangers you speak of, but I wish not for anyone to come to harm through my actions, either.”

“The people of Éadan Doire and all the villages surrounding it love you, Fiacha mac Domnall, since you fed their poor and spoke to the gods for their dead. You have the common folk of the royal city on your side, I have its knights under me, and no one has ever taken the walls of Éadan Doire from outside in a thousand years counting. Gods give your cousins a little wit, they will not dare touch you.”

From all the songs about fierce warrior Sir Cenric’s bloody exploits, you would not have guessed he had thought so deeply on how to avoid war, and Fiacha found himself partial to him for it. He rested the wreath in his lap as he considered the man.

“Give me the night to think it over and ask the gods for counsel. I will come to Dunlough Castle in the morning and report my decision to you.”

“You have this land in your hands, Fiacha mac Domnall,” Sir Cenric said gravely as he rose to his feet.

He did not, of course. This land and all lands laid in the hand of the Allmother, the Father of Storms, and the many other gods and goddesses that protected and vexed mortals alike. It was to them that Fiacha prayed that night for a sign, after drinking a mouthful of the Seer’s Draught, which was what the priests called the herbal concoction which allowed them to receive visions from the gods.

As he laid on the cold stone ground, the temple wavering before his eyes like fog, the veil between this and the Otherworld shivering and shifting, a shadow appeared in the open door of the hall. It was a stray dog, tall, dark, shaggy, wild, with long teeth and bright, glinting eyes. After looking at Fiacha for a moment, it turned.

Fiacha clambered to all fours and dragged himself to the open doorway. The dog ran across the moonlit clearing towards the towering city walls of Éadan Doire, halting just briefly at the edge of the forest to make sure that Fiacha saw its path, or perhaps waiting for him to follow, before it vanished in the underbrush.

It had looked almost like a wolf.

The next morning, Fiacha swapped his white robes for a rough-spun woollen tunic and leather trousers and bid the other priests farewell.

-

Cenric had been on the battlements of Dunlough Castle since the first red glimmers appeared in the sky over the rooftops of the city, and sure to his promise, Fiacha mac Domnall arrived at the castle gate just when the sun had chased off the last stars. At first glance, Cenric had barely recognised him, if it weren’t for the black tattoos of rune-patterns that still covered his clean-shaven, unassuming face. Usually, a wreath of oak leaves had sat in his short, raven hair, but it was gone. The white priest’s robes were exchanged for peasant’s clothes.

The knights admitted him on Cenric’s orders and he stood barefoot before him in the courtyard, a short man with dark eyes that showed a calm attentiveness which Cenric hope spoke of some sort of wisdom; he would need it if he wished to survive as ruler.

“My king?” Cenric guessed, his heart in his throat.

“I suppose so, yes.”

Cenric dragged Fiacha into the keep to put him in his brother’s clothes, which were too wide on his slighter frame, but were adorned with golden thread and precious stones as befit a king. He also retrieved the Crown of Blossoms, a slim coronet made to look like intertwined flowers with petals of silver arranged around small, round diamonds, which princes wore traditionally before the official coronation ceremony had taken place, where they took the crown proper. By the time the sun had climbed to its highest point, Cenric had had the city criers declare that Fiacha mac Domnall had taken the throne.

Much like Cenric had expected, there was no one in the capital who would object to such an appointment, aside, of course, from the nobles at the court. However, even many of those who had sworn their allegiance to a cousin or another flagged and reconsidered. Men and women like them, the kind who dealt in schemes, were always convinced they had the upper hand and Fiacha, dovish, soft-spoken, almost shy, seemed a perfect target for such machinations. Cenric was quite worried they could be right.

But Fiacha was not as easily led as he had feared. For as much as the court seemed to unsettle him, and send him to spend his evenings sitting in the Green Place – the garden of the gods each castle of any size included, and which in poorer houses was just a flower pot –, he was never intimidated or seduced to follow orders. His fast friendship with his brother had evidently given him at least the broad strokes idea of living at court that being sent to the Temple at five years old would have shuttered him from. Cenric also did his level best to sit him down at every opportunity to tell him of all the people who could be a danger to him, which was just about everyone.

“You know a lot about the court,” Fiacha said, after Cenric had given him the full, tangled history of the Whitewend family one evening. They were sitting in two wooden chairs before the hearth in Fiacha’s room.

Cenric grimaced.

“Gods know I’d rather I didn’t, but if you live here and plan to keep on living, it’s not a bad idea, my king. Your brother relied on me to do more than just swing a sword.”

“He did always speak highly of you. Others have asked me to abandon your counsel, but I know my brother wouldn’t have,” Fiacha said, folding his hands in his lap.

“Your brother is a good man.”

“But?” Fiacha asked quietly.

It surprised Cenric that Fiacha had heard that hint of an objection in his tone. He tried to hide it, after all. Shifting on the hard seat, he considered in how much danger he was of insulting Fiacha’s affections for Gofraidh and if it would cost him the king’s ear. However, with Fiacha’s steady gaze on him, dark eyes reflecting the fire, he felt stripped of his armour, his clothes, like Fiacha still had the power of those touched by the gods and could find the truth regardless of whether Cenric bothered to put it in words.

“ _But_ he let his sadness rule him in the end. I felt for him, but it made him a worse king than his people deserved.”

Slowly, Fiacha nodded his head. “It pains me to say that I suspect you are right. I always hoped to cheer him again, but I failed. At least I will see not to fall into the same trap, Sir Cenric, and if I do, be so good to remind me.”

He smiled briefly at him, a rare sight and a good one, since it drew attention to the gentle arch of his lips.

“Yes, my king,” Cenric said with a bow of his head.

With how closely he worked with Fiacha in the weeks after his arrival at court, it was not long until Cenric had earned himself another nickname – Kingbringer. It was said sometimes with respect and sometimes with anger. He refuted it if it was spoken to his face, but never too loudly. It wouldn’t hurt if the nobility remembered Cenric was not to be cast aside.

Fiacha, however, was not so wholly under his control as some people murmured, and perhaps even less than Cenric may have wished sometimes. It soon became clear to Cenric that Fiacha’s taciturnity was thoughtfulness, his timidity prudence, and his kindness true, but unmarred by naivety. He took Cenric’s counsel when he wanted it and had good reasons ready if he rejected it, but reject it he did. This was, at first, how he treated everybody, and over time how he continued to deal with Cenric, or the Lady Mildred, or Seneschal Iobhar of the Western Mounds, or the master of ships, Lord Padraig; the sort of folk that could be made to listen and argued in good faith with him. Those who would not take no for an answer, though, were served with some wordless nods or at best a vague agreement – that this was indeed how such matters _could_ be resolved and they were quite smart for thinking of it – before Fiacha went on to wholly ignore their advice, no matter how forceful they had been in delivering it.

After the struggle of the last months, the last years, truly, with the heart-broken king moving like a flag in the wind to every suggestion in his frequent morose moods, Cenric would admit that he took great pleasure in seeing the courtiers, who had been so used to walking all over the old king, running face-first into the wall of polite silence that was the meek King Fiacha, forced to retreat with bloodied noses. He’d chosen Fiacha out of desperation, trying to keep the country from sinking into civil war, but it seemed the gods that Fiacha was so fond of had taken pity on Cenric for once.

-

“Do you still feel yourself a priest?”

Fiacha lowered his gaze from the green foliage above and looked over his shoulder. In the evenings, Cenric would often join him in the Green Place, the small enclave in the middle of the castle reserved for the gods and believers to dwell in, silently watching Fiacha instead of the wild-growing flowers and bushes and trees that were here to serve as reminder of the gods’ creation of life.

“Priests don’t concern themselves with spice taxes.”

At the mention of today’s contentious and lengthy debate at the Great Meeting, the weekly round-up of Fiacha’s advisors, Cenric gave a sardonic smile.

“And lucky they are for it, but most kings don’t spend this much time in the Green Place, either.”

“I am no longer a priest, but I have still lived with the gods for many years. It’s not something I could put aside. The Bright Maiden leads my steps in the dark and the Allmother strengthens my will.” He cocked his head. “But I wonder why you come here.”

“Can’t I pray?”

“You could, but I don’t think you do.”

Cenric snorted as he sat down on a fallen, moss-covered trunk in the grass by Fiacha’s side. It was his favourite spot, Fiacha had noticed.

“No,” he admitted. “It’s just a quiet place to think. Besides, I’m not comfortable leaving you alone here for now where there are so many spots for someone to hide with a dagger.”

“You have been very attentive to me,” Fiacha agreed, resting his palms on his knees.

“Does it bother you, my king?”

“Not at all. Your suspicions could well be right, after all.” Besides, Cenric was a calming presence, of sorts. Fiacha had not thought he would need such a thing, since he had the gods to rely on, after all, but to know Cenric had been a trusted general of his brother’s made him someone worth heeding. Besides, he had come to appreciate his insights as well as enjoy his snide remarks about the court and its people, the latter despite himself, since Fiacha tried never to be malicious, yet sometimes found Cenric voicing what a bitter whisper in the back of his own head was also saying. “Still, I wonder if I am not taking you from someone. Have you no one waiting, no family?”

“None left, no. My mother died young, my father drank himself into the grave a bit later, leaving me with his debtors and the little noble blood our family still had. I’m sure you’ve heard the story, it’s part of a few songs about me. Not my favourite verses, mind...”

Fiacha smiled slightly.

“Your rise in the king’s ranks was a great feat for one as unlucky as you in early life. I am sorry about your parents, and I know you don’t have a wife, but perhaps there are children regardless, or a... companion?” Mistress, Fiacha figured, was the right word, but he was not used to discussing such delicate matters, which should be of no importance to priests. However, if he wanted to get to know Cenric as more than his protective shadow, he should show him that he was open to learn even about things not fit to be spoken about in public.

“No bastards and no companions,” Cenric said. “My duty is to the throne, my king.” He hesitated, measuring Fiacha, who held his gaze, as open as he could, keenly aware of how the sentence hung unfinished in the air. “I have never been one tempted to stray by women.”

“So you are celibate?” Fiacha asked, surprised.

Cenric grinned wryly at that thought.

“No.”

It took Fiacha a moment to get at Cenric’s meaning and he tried his best to hide his surprise.

“Ah, well, I am glad you would share that with me, Sir Cenric.”

“I’m surprised no one told you the rumours. I know half the court is trying to discredit me right now.”

“Perhaps they guessed rightly it would do little to change my opinion,” Fiacha answered, in hopes of chasing the concern from Cenric’s bright eyes.

“I see,” Cenric said, straightening a little.

“But still no companion?”

“Where would I take the time? As I said, my attention is on you these days, my king.”

He had a way of smiling, Sir Cenric, where the left corner of his mouth would lift, twisting the scar that split his lips on that side, and it made Fiacha’s stomach twist in a strange way.

“Do not feel bound to me,” Fiacha said, rising to his feet. “You have already served my family well and I am beginning to find my footing here. While I’m glad to know you at my side, you are free to chase, er... distractions.”

“I will keep it in mind,” Cenric said.

Whether he did so, Fiacha could not say, but it was of course Cenric’s own private matter he would not question him on. Regardless, eventually Cenric would start to leave him under the protection of other knights and go to converse with the captain of Éadan Doire’s city guard or with Lord Halmer, who was in charge of keeping the surrounding roads into the country free of robbers. Whenever he was at the keep, though, Cenric still looked for his company.

Fiacha was old enough to know that in part, Cenric would keep so close because he did not wish to lose Fiacha’s trust and goodwill, but if he flattered himself, he would like to think that Cenric enjoyed his company as Fiacha’s did his. Cenric could talk for hours about the affairs of the kingdom while Fiacha listened gladly, or they would simply sit together in the Green Place in companioble silence, Fiacha praying and Cenric sharpening his daggers. Theirs was the sort of contrast in temperament, Fiacha thought to himself, that was akin to key and lock, different in make but united in purpose.

He was a fascinating man, in Fiacha’s opinion. Many things were sung and said about Cenric the Wolf, some lies and some not, but one thing that struck Fiacha as most true when he got to know his character better was that Cenric would always drive on with animal stubbornness when he had sunk his teeth into something. On the one hand, every task he was given, he would pursue tirelessly until it had found some sort of end. He could also be counted on to stand by his opinions instead of ducking and backtracking like so many would. His loyalty to him, as far as Fiacha could tell, had never wavered once. On the other hand, Fiacha would sometimes have to end fights for Cenric, who could bicker endlessly with this lord or that lady; or he had to caution him to mercy when some knave stood shaking in his boots before him, failing the same task for the twentieth time in a row while Cenric would not let up. Then there was the day Cenric stepped into the throne room with a bloody rag wrapped around his arm. Fiacha commanded him into his chambers, the spacious rooms he had taken over from his brother.

“What happened to you, Sir Cenric?”

“Nothing,” Cenric said, waving his good hand. “I helped Lord Halmer’s men to take care of some pirates who were camping out by the shore.”

“Your bandage is bled through. You should see our healer.”

“Wigand?” Cenric gave a derisive snort. “It’s not such a big wound. I have no desire to waste my time with him tonight. We have never been fast friends.”

This could be said about many people in the castle, Fiacha knew by now, but to be fair, Cenric never disliked someone for no good reason, even if Fiacha thought he could have shown more lenience on harmless folly and foolishness. Wigand was merely talkative and convinced of himself, nothing worse.

“Then let me look at it. I have helped many a lost soul who came to the temple seeking aid, innocent people and those lost on the path alike. I’m no stranger to wounds from a fight.”

“My king, this is not your position now...”

“I would wish you to do it, anyway, Sir,” Fiacha interrupted.

Cenric looked at him as if he wanted to argue, but then just shook his head with a roll of his eyes.

“As my liege commands.”

Fiacha went to find a servant and instructed her to bring him clean cloth, honey from the kitchen, and water from the well, ignoring her look of confusion. Back in his chambers, he bade Cenric to sit on the edge of his bed, this gigantic wooden construction with its heavy curtains that continually left Fiacha feeling like he was sleeping on a bedstead meant for six people.

As he unwrapped the rough fabric, he was pulling it out of clots of dried blood and Cenric hissed, but did not protest. Since Fiacha knew there was no way he could avoid causing pain, he at least tried to do his work quickly. The servant returned to place what Fiacha had asked for by his side, taking just a quick look of curiosity at the knight sitting there with an open gash in his arm. Fiacha held his wrist in his hand for a moment to turn the wound to where he could see it in the light of the torch and then knelt, for the bed sat low on the ground and bowing over Cenric’s lap was an awkward position. Cenric frowned at him.

“A king kneels not before his knights.”

“A friend may do so to help a friend,” Fiacha said unabashedly.

Cenric fell quiet as he watched him clean his wound and then slather honey onto the cloth he would use for a bandage. In his time at the temple, he had learned from his elders that the sweet nectar helped to prevent wounds from festering. He tied the new bandage tightly and watched Cenric flex his hand once he was done.

“You have done better work than some healers I’ve had to deal with in the wars.”

“If we should fight again, I fear this and a prayer for the gods’ favour is all I could bring to a battlefield, so perhaps it is just as well.”

“A priest king need not fight. I have seen you talk to the townsfolk. You could raise an army with just your words.”

“I’m not sure I like that idea,” Fiacha answered, feeling the weight of the thought bear down on him. “Such violence is not my way.” He looked up at Cenric and squeezed his hand for a brief moment before letting go. “I hope to have you still by my side if it ever becomes necessary.”

“I will be your arm, my king,” Cenric said, glancing at the bandage, “now that you have saved mine.”

Fiacha had to smile.

-

“You are done early tonight,” Cenric noted, as Fiacha and him pushed between the old trees of the Green Place. He watched a squirrel flit up the grey stem of a birch, the quick movement drawing his attention in the same moment as it made his muscles tense with habitual wariness, but let his gaze fall back on Fiacha, then, who was watching his own feet sink into the knee-high grass as he walked.

“My thoughts are not with the gods,” Fiacha said.

“That’s unusual. What’s distracting you, if I can ask?”

Fiacha slowed his steps and sat on the low stone banister that encircled the Green Place, which was enclosed in a small courtyard surrounded by a colonnade.

“Lady Mildred suggested that at the formal coronation ceremony, there would likely be many lords and ladies looking to win my hand, and that I should think about my choice.”

Cenric nodded his head. It was a sensible suggestion, despite the unreasonable simmer of discontent he felt in his chest at the thought. The new king, obviously, should find himself a wife so he could acquire some heirs and thus prevent them from the uncertainty that had followed his brother’s departure. That Cenric was a thrice-damned fool who thought too much about the evening Fiacha had knelt before him with his gentle hands running over his skin was something that had no bearing on this truth.

Fiacha watched his face and huffed a quiet breath.

“It’s something I should have expected, isn’t it? I can see it in your reaction. You’re right, of course. I just always imagined I would take a ward to solve the problem of my succession.”

“You could do that, too, though it might deprive you of the chance of making a good connection by marriage,” Cenric said, careful to keep his voice level, not impress the thought of choosing a ward on Fiacha. It would make him a man of little worth if he drove Fiacha that way just because he wished to keep him for himself. “Do you not want to break your vows?”

“I have broken my vows by relinquishing the white robes,” Fiacha answered, shaking his head. “I just, I...”

He stopped, looked awkwardly at his feet again. The tips of his ears were red. Stammering embarrassment was not something Cenric had ever seen from his king, so he found himself intrigued.

“Well, out with it, my king. Perhaps I can help.”

Fiacha’s brows were drawn in a frown. “Oh, I rather think you wouldn’t want to, Sir. I mean to say that I have never broken _certain_ vows before or after I left the priesthood behind, which is why the act of marriage seems... daunting.”

“Never at all?” Cenric asked, brows shooting up. “Not even in your youth?”

“Not even in my youth, not even a kiss,” Fiacha said with a shake of his head.

“You must have stood up to a lot of temptation. Don’t tell me no one ever tried.”

Fiacha was very pious and a quiet soul altogether, but he was gentle with people and liked to be around them, and handsome in his own way. Cenric could simply not imagine he had never been singled out for seduction by any woman or even man.

However, the king looked simply bemused.

“I sincerely doubt it, Sir Cenric. I have never been the man to attract that sort of attention, which is fine, but – I am much too old now to make insecurity and inexperience seem endearing.” Again, he shook his head and slipped off the stone banister, pulling his long, dark mantle forward so it enveloped him almost completely. “This is inappropriate to talk about, though. I apologise.”

“Don’t be. Knights speak much rougher amongst each other.”

And yet, Cenric thought, as they entered the west wing of the castle through a heavy wooden door, he wished that he had not asked. It was already a struggle not to think about Fiacha in ways that were entirely unworthy of a knight sworn to his king. He did not consider himself above much, knowing well his temperament and soul carried the scars of war as obviously as his body did and had made him less agreeable and courteous through the years; but still, one should not take oneself in hand with the king in mind, and he had done it too often to count.

Blind and foolish, he was, his king, so convinced that he was no object of lust or romantic affection. Cenric would have taught him whatever he wished to know, had he not been certain that Fiacha would have declined the offer. It would be the greater service to find him a kindly whore, Cenric thought, sourly, though he doubted Fiacha could be convinced to do more than speak about his day with her.

But this was all his own fault, after all. Even had Fiacha been a queen, it would have made little difference. A drop of noble blood, a few songs from the common folk and even the respect hard-won from other knights did not push Cenric into the spheres of higher nobility. People would be throwing their high-born daughters at Fiacha at the first opportunity, and at some point, Cenric was sure, some friendly widow or long-overlooked older sister with a sweet and settled temper would finally be introduced to him and gather Fiacha’s heart in her hands, taking much better care of it than an old hound like Cenric could even if given the chance.

The preparations for the coronation ceremony at least gave him something else to focus on. With Fiacha’s family of jealous would-be kings all collected here, Cenric had doubled the guards and decided that he would not leave the king’s side even for a moment. By Fiacha’s wish, the procession started at the high temple in the Greatwoods. Fiacha received the crown from the hands of the new high priest of the temple, who had followed after him in the position. Cenric had always thought he wore the delicate Crown of Blossoms well, and since it was a deliberate echo of a priest’s wreath to show the king had the blessing of the gods, this made a lot of sense. However, when finally the heavy crown of the king was placed on his head, massive gold encrusted with as many blood-red rubies as some fine craftsman had been able to make it hold all those many years ago, Fiacha raised his head just as easily as he had under the coronet and kept it high.

Though usually one for simple dress when not forced by Cenric to present himself in royal fashion, Fiacha wore a long black robe stitched with the silver raven of his house today that was cut to fit his body and underlined the simple elegance inherent in the precision of his movements. Black hunting boots up to the knees hugged his legs and the mantle he wore was trimmed with grey wolf’s fur. Though Cenric knew Fiacha did not know how to use the sword hanging by his side, he looked confident enough to convince you he could draw it against any enemy.

With Fiacha playing his role so well and Cenric right behind him flanked by Roland Fiendslayer and Conchobar, Sword of Midnight, two other men who were well-loved by the people and who Cenric had chosen for this reason amongst others to accompany him, it was no surprise the villagers and city folk cheered as Fiacha made his slow way down the road, past the city gate, and through the streets. Fiacha had decided to call back to an old tradition and carry some oak wood branches with fresh green leaves in his arms to show that he was going to be led by the gods in all decisions. As he passed by, people threw flowers under his feet just as they had when he had come into town for a festival as a high priest and though it was not actually the appropriate gesture for a king, Fiacha gave his rare smiles to those who did, visibly pleased.

All in all they walked some five hours until they had arrived back at the castle, the sun warm for late spring and undisturbed by even a speck of clouds. In full chain mail armour with thick decorative robes pulled over them, Cenric felt like a lobster being boiled alive. The last hour or so appeared to him more like a loaded march to a battlefield, but he did not give in to the temptation to sit down even as they had arrived in the great hall and everyone else found spots at the tables to enjoy the food that was being served. Instead, he took up position behind Fiacha’s chair.

Fiacha was handed a goblet by a servant the moment he was seated, a plate full enough for three men pushed under his nose by another. He thanked them before taking a gulp of the wine and looking over his shoulder at Cenric.

“Are you alright?” Fiacha asked. With his own face red and his hair damp, Cenric imagined he felt the exhaustion of the walk as well, and could guess Cenric was in no better shape, having carried the weight of the chain mail on him. Cenric pulled off his helmet, glad for the cool air within castle walls.

“I’ve had worse than a stroll through the city,” he said.

“Still, you should at least drink something, Sir. It won’t do for you to suffer heat stroke.”

Fiacha looked around the table, and, after finding no bottle, offered Cenric his own goblet. He would have refused for manner’s sake, but his throat was parched and his tongue felt like a wad of dry cloth. Cenric grabbed the goblet with a nod and downed a mouthful of the red wine. It was too sweet, but it was some liquid in his throat and he was glad for it.

While Fiacha sipped his drink and spoke to the people who walked up to the high table, Cenric let his gaze wander through the hall, taking note of the seating. It amused him that the cousins had obviously worked to get the spots closest to the high table and as a result sat separated from their own wives and children just to shorten their distance to the king.

It was looking over these men that his sight suddenly started to blur. He blinked, thinking it was only some dust in his eyes, but that just made it worse. Lowering his gaze, Cenric found heat crawling up his neck and down through his core, more searing even than what he’d felt in the worst glare of the sun. Before he could finish wondering if the weather had gotten to him, after all, an unexpected sensation hit him as forcefully as a punch to the gut. It was arousal, strong and sudden enough to make Cenric stagger on the spot. He grasped the back of Fiacha’s high chair with a quiet curse under his breath. What was this madness? It was true he had been staring at Fiacha this day, but that had just been with the usual undercurrent of distant longing. He was no sixteen year old boy in thrall to his urges, and even then, he had never wanted with such ferociousness.

Nails digging into the backrest of Fiacha’s chair, he found himself unable to move even though he knew he would have to if he didn’t want to be found out. Chain mail and robe hid what had to be a bulge in his breeches, but he could do nothing about what was written on his face. Control slipped as rapidly as snow melted in a burning fire and panic settled in. He was never a man who took the hand off the rudder and it was ripped from his fingers now.

“Sir Cenric?”

“I’m...”

He could not string half a sentence together, his voice thick, attention inevitably drawn from the words Fiacha spoke – some question if he was well, no doubt – to his wine-wet lips, the flick of his tongue, the line of his neck. Some demon inside him wondered what he was waiting for, there was a table, after all, over which he could have thrown his king’s body to take what he wanted.

_I’m going insane. I have to get out of here._

Fiacha rose from his chair and Cenric stared at him, sure his desperate helplessness was as clear in his expression as his need.

“We should step outside.”

Cenric could just about keep himself under control as Fiacha placed a hand in his back, pressing him in the direction of one of the small servant entrances in the back of the hall; but since Fiacha walked with him, the growling thing woken in him was pacified to keep his feet moving.

Wigand stepped into their way just before they reached the door.

“My king, where are you going? The festivities have only just begun.”

“Sir Cenric just told me of something that needs my immediate attention,” Fiacha said, and distantly, Cenric realised there was a tremble in his voice. “Would you let us through?”

“Should I come? Sir Cenric looks like he might need assistance.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. It’s a matter of politics. Go enjoy yourself, Wigand.”

Wigand looked at him in some confusion, but stepped aside.

Fiacha pushed Cenric further, his palm putting insistent pressure on the small of his back, and Cenric grasped mindlessly at him, groping his thigh, the front of him, and finding him also hard under his robes. This made his steps stall, dangerously rattling the last of his restraints, but Fiacha urged him on.

“Just a little further,” he rasped, breathless himself now.

Cenric did not want to wait, but some small measure of sense took hold of him – he could not undress the king in the middle of the hall – and he walked as Fiacha had commanded until they reached another door. Right now, Cenric couldn’t have said in what part of the castle they even were, but he recognised Fiacha’s chambers when the king threw the door open and all but bodily pushed Cenric in, grasping for the wrought iron key on the table and jamming it in the lock.

He had barely managed to turn it once before Cenric took him around the waist and threw him on the bed. The king landed with a dull thud on the straw-filled mattress, the crown falling off his head and rolling over the bed like a discarded toy, stopped by a pillow from landing on the ground.

Cenric was right on top of Fiacha, crushing their mouths together. Fiacha’s was opened in surprise or pain and Cenric shoved his tongue into the inviting warmth as he pushed his hips against him. There was too much in the way, thick layers of cloth and chain mail, and Cenric was forced to sit back to struggle out of his overcoat and armour, discarding both into whatever direction they would go when he threw them off. 

It was when he leaned back in that a sliver of consciousness broke through once more as he looked down at Fiacha. His dark eyes were so wide and his face so pale, and for all the times that Cenric had imagined taking the king’s innocence, he had never wanted him to be afraid, or to show the beastly side of himself that he only presented to those who were hard and war-torn like him, knights he fucked in tents after a battle with blood still on his hands. And yet, Fiacha was also grasping at him, tugging him closer, and his mind was swallowed again by the heat that burned his blood and bones to ash.

He fell back down, biting his neck, worrying it with his teeth, in fact, determined to leave a mark, covered Fiacha with his body, and Fiacha squirmed under him, rutting against his thigh. It was too much to bear right now to feel him eager, at least if there had been any hope left of slowing himself down. Cenric moved back just enough to turn Fiacha onto his stomach, the king making a small noise of surprise. Hastily, Cenric pushed up his robes and mantle and pulled down his underclothes. There was no time to admire the body he uncovered with his head so clouded, and Cenric pulled himself out of his breeches and spat in his hand, slicking himself to make pushing into Fiacha a little bit easier.

He took Fiacha with short, brutal thrusts, breaching his defences inch by inch. The king made strangled gasps into his arm, which turned into a low, long moan when Cenric sat back and pulled at Fiacha’s hips to force him onto his cock.

Leaving neither of them a chance to take a breath, Cenric fucked him hard and fast. Fiacha’s body ran as hot as his own, almost scorching to the touch, shuddering with every thrust, thighs sliding apart willingly for him and his often muted voice unrestrained with rough groans and small whimpers. He came when Cenric reached around to grasp his cock, after barely a stroke or two, and Cenric used his pliant body happily, one hand on his hip and the other curled in his short hair, holding him in place, claiming him, just as he’d wanted for too long, using all the remaining strength even as it seemed to drain out of his body like water from a broken vase. He lost a few seconds when he came and the force of it had him collapsing against Fiacha’s back.

It took him a moment to work up the will and strength to roll off of him, with a dim idea of not wanting to cut off his breathing. Fiacha looked at him out of the bundle of tangled fur collar and folds of bunched-up clothes that had ended up collected behind his head and around his shoulders as Cenric had pushed them out of the way. The fear in his eyes had vanished and been replaced with the dull, sated look of a well-fed pet. His fingers reached out, brushing aimlessly through Cenric’s hair and beard, and Cenric had half a mind to kiss him again, but that was when consciousness left him.

\- 

Sitting on the throne had been painful for a while, but now Fiacha was used to the dull ache that radiated up the length of his spine. As a novice priest, he remembered kneeling on the stone ground for whole days in contemplation for the final rituals, and the pain he had felt in his joints then was not in the end so different from this.

Or that was what he would tell himself, anyway, to keep his face blank as he heard the supplicants.

When he had woken in the middle of the night, wrapped in creased ceremonial clothes and the sleeping Cenric’s arms, he had needed just a moment to again find the mostly assembled pieces of the puzzle, which he had dropped last night when the drug took over. After struggling back into his breeches and banning all that had happened to the back of his mind, he had left his room and found two of the guards Cenric had taught him were trustworthy. With them, he had gone into the east wing of the castle, were his court healer slept, and had had him dragged straight out of his bed into a cell in the dungeons.

Thankfully, Wigand was not terribly courageous and confessed to the poisoning before the guards had managed to secure the lock. What a heartache it was going to be to give the proper judgements for high treason, Fiacha thought – and his own family involved. Some people had no shame. Perhaps he could find a way out of taking anyone’s head, even if Cenric would surely want blood and there had to be some appropriate punishment. Still, Fiacha wanted to send no one to the Otherworld.

These were the questions with which he could mercifully distract himself up until the moment when the guard at the door announced that Sir Cenric was the last person asking for an audience today. Usually, Cenric would have simply waited for Fiacha outside, but Fiacha could see why he would not want to assail him unannounced today.

“I have something else to attend to now, but tell him I will meet him in the Green Place shortly, Sir Elwyn,” Fiacha said.

They would best talk in private, of course, but Fiacha also felt he needed a moment to pull himself together. His affection for Cenric had for a while exceeded that of a ruler grateful to a good knight, but last night had taken all the half-formed, secret hopes he’d harboured in his heart and turned them on their head, being at once desperately pleasurable and yet deeply frightening, more for the strength of his own reactions than Cenric’s involuntary violence. He also knew he would face a man who had been thrown into passion against his will and while that was true for both of them, Fiacha felt his own guilt would be heavier, since in some way the drug had fulfilled an unspoken desire of his, even if against his will. Perhaps this was the twisted way in which the gods punished him for some misgiving, but he would have wanted them not to draw Cenric into it.

Either way he had to face him eventually if only to explain what had happened. When he’d left Cenric’s side, his knight had still been dead asleep in Fiacha’s bed.

The Green Place was quiet as usual at this time of day and Fiacha walked into the thicket knowing he would find Cenric by the fallen tree where he so often took up vigil when he watched Fiacha pray. This time, he was pacing in front of the trunk. He must have found his way into his own chamber at some point after waking up, for he was wearing his preferred leather chest piece and hunting garb. When he spotted Fiacha between the trees, Cenric stopped dead in his movement.

“My king,” he said, uncertain, “I was not sure if you wished to see me alone.”

“Why would I not?” Fiacha asked, as calmly as he could, hoping to wipe the upset from Cenric’s face. “You were obviously not in possession of your senses last night, and neither was I.”

This Cenric did not seem to wish to refute. He stepped from one foot to the other.

“I heard you arrested Wigand?” Cenric asked.

“He has the knowledge to create potions. The wine was the only thing both of us had had when we were starting to feel sick. He tried to keep up from leaving. I knew by the time we had escaped the great hall. According to him, he was working for my cousin Osgar. Killing me with poison was apparently deemed too obvious, so the hope was that I would create a scandal.”

Cenric’s jaws worked. “That whoreson should be lucky to be behind iron bars right now or I might wring his neck myself and crack it as befits a rat like him.”

“Peace, Cenric,” Fiacha said quietly. “It was terribly done, but at least it worked out as well as it could have, considering circumstances – though I am deeply sorry for what happened.”

“It worked out well?” Cenric snapped, staring at him in terror. “How can you say such a thing?! I raped you!”

Fiacha had never yet seen his first knight so shaken and he could not blame him. It was a terrible burden he thought he had to carry. Slowly, he took a few steps towards him until only an arm’s length separated them.

“It was not your fault. And, all things being equal, I’m glad it was you.”

The anger on Cenric’s face abated just a little.

“What do you mean?”

Fiacha opened his mouth, but found shame tied his throat closed. He cleared it with a cough. His face felt quite warm.

“This is not how I wanted things to happen, and I never would have even mentioned this to you otherwise, but – I’m sure you were less willing than me, even if matters were taken out of both our hands. Take that knowledge and be at ease, Sir Cenric.”

He looked up at Cenric, who watched him out of his sharp, bright eyes.

“I imagined this, you know, my king?” he said slowly.

“This?”

“Being in your bed.”

Fiacha stared at him in wide-eyed surprised.

“But by the gods, this was not the way it should’ve gone. I could have made it something you wanted.”

“Sir Cenric…”

Fiacha imagined he had to be red like roses in summer now. It had not occurred to him, even knowing Cenric preferred men, that he would ever gain his attention. There were many people who admired Cenric, after all, and even with his preferences he should have plenty of choice. 

“How much did I hurt you?” Cenric demanded.

“It will be fine.”

“Please, my king, just answer.”

“I am just sore and have a few small bruises. Well, and…” Fiacha pulled back the fur trimming of his cloak to reveal the red teeth marks Cenric had left on his neck. It was why he had put the ceremonial piece on today. “This must be why they call you Cenric the Wolf.”

Finally, Sir Cenric smiled a little, though it looked pained.

“I apologise.”

“I accept if you will take my apology, too.”

“I won’t,” Cenric said. “If you hadn’t been so clear of mind, who knows what I would have done in view of all the court? You saved my hide, my king.” He halted. “But I don’t understand – if it was the wine that was poisoned, how come you could withstand it for so long? You drank more of it than me and you’re smaller to boot.”

Fiacha sat down on Cenric’s fallen tree and Cenric took the spot by his side.

“I don’t know for certain, but I have an idea. You know priests induce visions to communicate with the gods, yes?”

“Of course.”

“This is done with a drink mixed of herbs, the Seer’s Draught. It’s quite well-known among priests that when you’re a novice, a few drops will open your mind to the voices of the gods, but by the time you’re my age, you need almost a whole cup. Perhaps that drink and the one Wigand prepared shared some ingredients that I had grown resistant to? Last night, Wigand seemed quite surprised to see me lucid, so I suppose he did not know this either.” He cocked his head. “You could say the gods protected me.”

“And me through you. Though I would take the disgrace if it meant I had not harmed you.”

“Stop of that now, Sir Cenric. I told you, I bear you no ill will. You could just as justifiably be mad at me.”

“I disagree, but I am grateful you are so mild.”

Cenric gave a pale smile. They looked at each other and Fiacha could not quite help the images from last night intruding, of Cenric kissing him hungrily, so close, so open in his need. He dropped his gaze to his knees. But to think Cenric had been interested… or was he still? Was perhaps all not lost?

“What would you have done differently?” he asked quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“You said if you had had full possession of your senses, you – would have done it differently,” Fiacha elaborated, finally at the end of his courage and looking at the trees instead of his knight.

There was a small pause.

“I would have shown you how good a man’s touch can feel. I would have brought you slowly to the point where you might have accepted me into your body instead of forcing myself into you. I would have shown you how nice it is to have your manhood in someone’s mouth… I would have made you want to come back to me. Again and again.”

The words sent a tingle down the length of Fiacha’s back, but it was the last sentence he caught on.

“That’s what you want? To keep me?”

“Yes.”

He could like that idea.

“And you don’t usually bite?” he asked, in an attempt to dispel the tension between them that was so uncommon these days.

“One should be rough with warriors, not priests,” Cenric answered.

“I am made of sterner stuff than you think. If I had you, I would want you as you are, Cenric the Wolf.”

Cenric grasped his chin and pulled him almost close enough to kiss.

“You may regret such bold words, my king,” he said, with that lopsided smile that Fiacha found so pleasing to look at.

Fiacha closed the distance between them, the warmth flooding him now so much more pleasing than what he’d felt last night.

Despite such teasing, Cenric would not come near Fiacha’s bed the next days and argued he would continue to abstain until he was sure his injuries from their first encounter had healed. Though Fiacha had been horribly tempted by Cenric’s words in the Green Place, he was also glad for this. He did not blame Cenric and in fact kept that night in his mind on purpose sometimes, but it had hurt and he wondered if he could so easily comply when he was not sedated. The kisses they stole when on their own were enough to assuage all real concerns, though. He would gladly suffer the pain again to have Cenric so wholly for himself once more.

They were sitting over maps of the realm one evening, contemplating the security of the sea border to the south, when Cenric leaned over to kiss him. Fiacha leaned into it happily, running a hand up into the long strands of hair, and found that Cenric tugged him closer as he slid his mouth over his jaw. His beard tickled Fiacha as he moved his head down to his neck, mouthing gently against the faded bruises of his former attack on the spot, and Cenric found his skin suddenly alight, dreading, as he had learned to do in these moments, Cenric’s inevitable retreat and toothy smile.

This time, however, Cenric’s hand landed on his thigh and ran up to his hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. Though there were the layers of Cenric’s robes and smallclothes between them and Cenric was wearing rough leather gloves, Fiacha thought he could feel the touch as deep down as his marrow.

“My dear Sir Cenric,” he said quietly, “if you shall leave me again after this…”

The warning had to fall flat because Fiacha had no threat. He would still, very likely, bent happily into Cenric’s kisses, he was too smitten not to. Cenric’s grin told him he knew.

“Are you sure you’re fully recovered?” he asked, an honest question behind his mocking tone.

“Yes. You are very caring, but I am not yet so old that every wound lingers for weeks.” Fiacha placed his hand atop Cenric’s. “I wish we could have the night that you wanted with me.”

Though Fiacha was sure that his stilted requests were hardly the sort that could seduce any man, Cenric looked at him as if he spoke like the most experienced courtesan. Then, he grasped Fiacha’s hand and urged him up from the chair, from the maps and his duties. Consciously, Fiacha felt them all fall away from him as he stepped towards the bed and brushed aside the heavy drapes. He was not the king now and he was certainly no priest; he was just a man here with no divine or earthly power, which was a strange feeling for someone who had defined himself over the vestments he wore for all his life.

Cenric looked at him and Fiacha inclined his head, trying not to let fear take a hold in his mind. Without all his authority, without oak wreath or crown, he was quite naked already even still wearing his clothes, so when he let go off Cenric’s hand and pulled his robes over his head before stripping his underclothes, it frightened him not. Cenric looked at him in surprise, though.

“I won’t need these, will I?” he asked with a hint of a smile.

“No,” Cenric said, hungrily raking his gaze across Fiacha’s exposed skin, and before Fiacha could think to grow timid Cenric pushed him down, replacing the strangely present touch of his eyes with that of his finger, tracing the lines of Fiacha’s tattoos that covered his body in swirls and waves and circles. It was a slow process which felt more curious than anything, exploring the broad of Fiacha’s chest, his thighs, his arms, and up his neck to his face, but Fiacha found his breath growing laboured and quick. He still remembered the pain of having them administered, a sacrifice to the Gods he had felt to his core, and the memory of it was like a ghost over Cenric’s movements, adding an intensity to them he could not have imagined. It grew so much that eventually he found himself grasping Cenric’s head with both hands, distracting him with a kiss to give himself some respite. It did not come, for Cenric was too close, all against him and all over him, and Fiacha could feel excitement ignite without a drop of poisoned wine to help along this time.

Cenric escaped his grasp to kiss his way down his body and only when he had slid back on the bed far enough to reach his stomach did Fiacha realise he was not going to stop there. He opened his mouth, but Cenric had moved off the mattress and when Fiacha sat up, he got down onto the ground and spread Fiacha’s legs, which were hanging off the side of the bed.

“Finally it’s right,” he said with a grin, “the knight kneeling before the king.”

Fiacha’s chuckle turned empty and breathless when Cenric took his hard manhood in his mouth. It was all he could do to grasp on to the edge of the bed with both hands so he would not squirm with the pleasure or push up into wet heat that suddenly enveloped him. In his forty years, even a priest had heard of such practices, but he had never thought that it could be so good. Of course, he imagined he would not have done half as well as Cenric had he tried. The man’s tongue seemed to be all round him and Fiacha felt himself slide against the soft back of his mouth and into the tight space beyond, yet his knight did not even wince. He had one hand digging into the side of Fiacha’s thigh while the other brushed his balls, and Fiacha could feel those touches mingling with the sensation of his mouth and wondered briefly if Cenric was some creature from the Otherworld to so thoroughly deprive him of any reasonable thought.

“Wait,” he managed, finally, despite all his raring instincts, and Cenric stopped, pulling off of him. Though his body protested at the loss, Fiacha breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Is everything alright?”

“I won’t last long like this.”

“You don’t have to,” Cenric pointed out. “We could just do this tonight…”

“No,” Fiacha answered, grabbing Cenric’s shoulder. “You said you could show me something, and I wish to see it.”

“Stubborn man,” Cenric scolded, but he got up, closing Fiacha in his arms as he pushed him down, pressing his mouth against his ear. “Or is it just that you miss it? The feeling of my cock inside you?”

Fiacha could see in the way Cenric all but winced at his own words that he had not meant to let anything quite so crude slip – that was only for other knights, Fiacha remembered. Was it then wrong that he loved to hear it, and at once realised Cenric was not wrong in what he said, even though there had been such pain the last time? Propriety demanded he should resist the implication, but fondness and arousal infused him with bravery. “Is that not what you’d want from a lover?” he asked back quietly.

Cenric rumbled something wordless and kissed his shoulder before he sat back and stripped his own clothes with quick fingers. From a fold of his rough ranger’s cloak, he pulled a small flask with some sluggish liquid moving inside. Fiacha looked at him, puzzled, but found his question answered when Cenric spilled what had to be oil over his fingers and pushed between his legs to make Fiacha open them up.

“Come, kiss me, my king,” Cenric said, and, when Fiacha leaned up, gently moved his palm under him and slid one wet finger right into him, not giving him time to think on it. His muscles seized against the intrusion, but his mind welcomed it, and with Cenric’s mouth on his, he soon found himself feeling only a dull pressure.

He had horribly clever fingers, Cenric, and an amount of patience he had never displayed with friend or foe at court before. Fiacha found himself wondering how he could so totally shore up the terrible, beautiful power which he had used on him before. Only the occasional brush of Cenric’s own manhood against Fiacha’s leg, thick and hot, and the rough hitch of breath in his throat reminded Fiacha that he was not as unaffected as he made himself out to be. And yet he persisted, his fingers spreading, prodding, moving as slowly and reverently along his insides as he had touched Fiacha’s tattoos before. By the time Cenric tested if he could get a third finger into him, Fiacha was making sounds he had never heard out of his own mouth before; when Cenric had managed to get the finger into the too-tight space with the others, Fiacha was begging, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

It was, in the end, a mumbled thought that suddenly made Cenric halt in his movements: “I do not want to finish without you inside me.”

“Gods be damned,” Cenric muttered. “And they called you a priest.”

Fiacha would have been embarrassed, but the relief was much greater as Cenric finally, finally pulled back his hand and grabbed his leg to throw it over his shoulder, bringing himself in position. He had never seen so much fire in eyes such an icy grey as when Cenric entered him, torturously slow. Fiacha put a hand over his own mouth so the rest of the castle could not hear him moan. There was perhaps the ghost of pain, but the need overruled it, and knowing that this time he shared himself willingly made him open and ready.

It was here Cenric finally lost the grip on the leash he’d wound so tightly around his own neck, and, spurred on by Fiacha’s hand reaching for him, he began taking him in earnest. What a handsome man he was, Fiacha thought indistinctly, watching how his scarred lips twisted over a snarl, his muscles flexing with each thrust, his long hair falling over his shoulders. The first time, he had not had the presence of mind to admire him so. Even now his lust threatened to overwhelm him, but he let go consciously when he did, torn away by a river he’d jumped into, his whole body rocked with Cenric’s force as the man stroked him at the same time, and he had the names of gods on his lips when he came, and was still floating in open air as Cenric chased his own pleasure in him until he finally spent himself.

They laid next to each other across the bed catching their breath. Fiacha turned his head against his knight’s shoulder, taking in his scent, earthy and pleasant. Cenric glanced at him, then hauled him into his arm. There could have been things to say, compliments to give, but in the end, it seemed superfluous. Cenric had seen how much Fiacha had loved his efforts, and he noted Cenric’s soft smile, his gentle touch, and closed his eyes, contented.

-

“Lady Mildred really does want you to choose a wife.”

Cenric leaned against the balustrade, looking out over the city of Éadan Doire spreading out at the rough-stone feet of Dunlough Castle. It looked peaceful on this gossamer evening. There were no crowds, no smoke from fires, and the last of Osgar’s ilk had finally followed him in his banishment to the northermost mountains this morning, where they could turn to ice on the sparse, frozen lands Fiacha had granted them, for all Cenric cared. For once, all seemed well.

“Lord Padraig does not think it’s a good idea. He wants me to take a ward and be a priest king. He says it fits what the people think of me,” Fiacha answered.

“You are following his advice,” Cenric noted.

Fiacha stood wearing the slim coronet he preferred to the bigger crown, even months after the coronation ceremony. He’d tucked the stems of a few oak leaves behind it, making it half a wreath, a stark remembrance of what he’d worn while still high priest of the temple. When he noticed Cenric looking at him, Fiacha lowered his eyes from the slim new moon above and returned his gaze.

“Maybe,” he allowed. “It does seem to match me better, does it not? The people trusted me with the crown because of who I was, so perhaps what this country needs is for me to stay a king without such attachments as a wife.”

“What a courtier you have become,” Cenric said and snorted.

“You always use that word interchangeably with ‘bastard’, my dear Sir Cenric,” Fiacha said, looking at him softly. “Do you condemn me, then?”

“No. I might not like it, but I know you have to hedge your bets a little, being the king. Besides, I don’t think being in my bed made you less god-touched than you were before. You stand above corruption from lowly creatures such as me.”

Fiacha shook his head. “You are wrong. You’d have the power to utterly ruin me. I have become so attached to you.”

“Wolves are just wild dogs, and dogs are loyal,” Cenric reminded him, stepping a little closer.

He had no idea, in truth, who was right, the Lady or the Lord; but if Fiacha took no wife, Cenric had some hopes that he could stay with the king, sharing life and bed with him as they had done since the last hot days of spring. Still it was selfish to want it for that reason, as he had chastised himself before, and still Cenric did, anyway.

“Yes, it is loyalty that worries me,” Fiacha said. “I doubt I could be tied to another as I am to you. If I cannot promise that to my wife, it’s better I don’t marry and remain with you instead, for you are already everything to me.”

Perhaps the warm wind was to blame, but Cenric’s cheeks felt hot. Fiacha smiled and looked out across his kingdom and Cenric turned to do the same. A priest to the people, a husband to Cenric, both in spirit and none by law; his king had the skill to show many faces and yet so rarely seemed like he was outright lying, for it was all true in his heart. That was the sort of man you could gladly live and die for.


End file.
